Altered State
by BlueEyedDemonLiz
Summary: Dean just wanted Sam to unwind - A night out ends in a disaster of a decidedly non-supernatural nature. Teenchesters short story. Rated for some strong language and gritty issues.
1. Demons I get but people are crazy

_A/N: A huge plateful of thanks (with a second helping) to my awesome beta Kender Rock My World – I don't know how she puts up with me. Any and all remaining mistakes are my own. _

_Disclaimer: I don't own the boys, and wishing I did never seems to work._

_Warning: Rated for bad language and gritty issues. Teenchesters (Sam is 17, Dean is 21) so no spoilers._

**Altered State – Part One. "Demons I get but people are crazy."**

Dean is drinking a beer. It's hotter than hell; the can is ice cold and the beer so good it's like drinking liquid paradise. He's standing outside—leaning against one of the rotted wooden posts of their apartment's porch—comfortable in the cool shade of the dark shadows. One eye rests on a small group of teenage girls, who stand idly chatting at a bus stop just across the street. The other eye is on his brother, who is sitting on the porch steps with both of his own eyes deeply immersed in the book lying open on his lap.

The girls are Sammy's age. They probably go to the same school as his little brother, too, and Dean can't help but think it's no twist of fate that they're hanging around directly across the street from Sam's apartment. Especially if all the hushed giggles and swiftly stolen glances are anything to go by**—**and the fact that four buses have been and gone and not one of the girls has left the bus stop.

Dean drains his can as a tall brunette breaks away from the group, quickly crossing the street towards them. She comes to a stop at the foot of the porch steps, her eyes glued on Sam. Dean's almost tempted to throw his empty can at Sam's head, seeing as the kid has completely failed to notice the incredibly good-looking girl stood staring nervously at him. Dean's hot chick alarm would have been firing off a siren loud enough to wake the dead if he were in his brother's position. Sometimes Dean finds it really hard to believe they're related and secretly keeps expecting his Dad to reveal that Sam isn't actually a Winchester but in truth, Bill Gates' love child.

The girl clears her throat somewhat unsubtly and finally, _finally__,_ Sam's eyes flick away from his book. Dean smirks lovingly as Sam freezes like a deer caught in the headlights. "K—Katie?" Sam's teenage voice breaks into a high-pitched squeak on the K and Dean snorts loudly behind him. _Smooth__,__ Sammy_.

"Sam," Katie chirps, and Dean melts a little; her voice is satin sheets and chocolate. Dean wonders if she's wearing lace underwear and gives her a charming smile, one she doesn't return as her eyes are still stuck on his little brother. _Damn those dimples_.

"Sam, I was just wondering if you're going to Carl Booker's party tonight?" Katie's hot pink nails fiddle with a wayward stand of long dark hair.

"I—I haven't decided." Sam stutters out as he stands up, one hand frantically brushing away imaginary dirt from his jeans.

Dean's eyes widen incredulously. He walks a couple of steps forward so that he's standing next to Sam and slaps his brother hard on the shoulder, painfully hard, _the darn idiot_. "What my brother means is that yes, he's going." Dean digs his fingertips deeper into Sam's shoulder blade as his brother begins to squirm underneath his grip.

"I'm pleased to hear it." Katie smiles, revealing two rows of blindingly white teeth. "Well, I'll see you later, then, Sam." With that, she turns and saunters back across the street. The waiting cluster of overexcited girls part and swallow her up like an amateur diver in shark infested waters.

There's a large amount of cheerful prattling going on as the group disperses and Dean gives his brother a quick sideways look. Sam's as white as milk, his hands nervously running up and down the spine of the book he's holding. Sam's eyes meet his fleetingly. "Why'd you go and do that, Dean?" he asks, as though Dean had just signed his death warrant and not fixed him up with what could possibly be the most important date of his high school geek existence.

"Sammy, if you get any squarer, Dad's going to start using you to carry the groceries. You need to lighten up a little, dude."

"Dean, I've got an English paper due on Monday. Dad's promised Caleb that I'd research the rawhead case in Cleveland for him and then I've got more research to do on those hikers who keep going missing in Coopers Wood."

"I can research tonight and you, my dorky little brother, can do your English paper in the morning—after you've recovered from the party."

"Dean..."

"Unless that sentence starts with 'Big brother, you're totally awesome and correct as always,' I don't want to hear it."

Sam rolls his eyes. "What about if it begins with 'Dean Winchester is a gigantic pain in the ass who always thinks he knows best?'"

Dean frowns. "Does that mean you'll go?"

"Does that mean you'll get off my case if I do?"

Dean's frown quickly disappears, swapped for a lopsided grin; Dean Winchester one, whiny little brother nil. "Go have fun. Drink a keg, kiss a girl and get stupid. You're seventeen, Sammy. You leave it much later and you'll be drawing out your pension. Then the most fun you'll get is liquidizing your dinner in a blender and exceeding the five mile an hour limit on your mobility scooter."

Sam lowers his head, looking at the book hugged tightly to his chest. The English paper is important, a huge part of his grade, but if he doesn't take some time out from all the studying then Dean might get suspicious and that could mean bad news. Hell, he could go to the party and still work on the assignment when he gets home. He could even pull an all-nighter if need be, it wouldn't be the first such session he's ever done.

Dean prods Sam lightly in the stomach. Sam looks up to see a pair of huge hazel eyes shining at him. "Is widdle Sammy gonna go party?"

_Pushy asshole_. "Okay. Okay fine, I'll go," Sam mutters wearily.

"I rule. Now get your skinny butt inside and get changed before Dad comes home and finds out you're going to go drink beer and get naked."

"What?"

"Naked—you know? Skinny dipping?" Sam's face remains blank. "Dude, you really haven't been to a proper party before, have you? At least not one that didn't involve a piñata and a clown named Mr Chuckles."

_Mr__.__ Chuckles! It wasn't my fault I missed the piñata and hit him where it hurts._ Sam shudders with a grimace on his lips at the memory of being chased across a neighbor's backyard by an enraged hobbling Mr. Chuckles.

XXX

Sam takes a long shower. It's so damn hot that he keeps the temperature dial set to cold, letting the icy spray of water slowly cool his sweltering body. The shower seems to be helping clear his head, too, which feels like it's overflowing with information. Names, dates, post-mortem records, obituaries, maths conundrums, science formulas. With all the relentless nights of researching for hunts or doing homework for school, Sam's barely had his head out of a book for days.

A thin trickle of blood seeps from his nose and pools above his lips. _Shit_. He swipes at it with his palm angrily and stares mesmerized at his hand as the crimson smear is gradually washed away by the running water. It's the fifth nose-bleed Sam has had this week and even though at first he was scared, now he's come to accept them—an ordinary everyday occurrence—like the headaches which threaten to split his skull in two.

"Sammy, enough with the beautifying treatments already." Dean's fist bangs against the bathroom door.

Sam steps from the shower and quickly wraps a towel around his waist. He swiftly checks his face in the mirror before he opens the door. Dean is holding up two button-down shirts. "So I've picked you out the best of a bad bunch Sammy." Dean waves the one with pastel stripes and short sleeves in the air like a flag. "Geeky McGeekerton or —" Dean lifts up the other shirt; pale blue checks with long sleeves and one of Dean's hand-me-downs. "—I wanna grow up to be just like Dean."

"Jerk." Sam pauses before pointing a finger at the pale blue check shirt.

"That's my boy, and to make the image complete…" Dean holds out his leather jacket—the one Dad gave him for his eighteenth birthday and the one Sam isn't normally allowed to wear, touch or breathe on.

"Really?"

"But be careful. You rip it and I rip off one of your limbs, it's as simple as that. Now go have a good time."

"Dean, what are you going to tell Dad?"

"I can handle Dad." _I have no clue__,__ but you need to take a break__,__ kiddo__. Y__ou're starting to look as drained as Dad does._

XXX

Dean scratches idly at his stomach as he watches Sam try on his jacket and tries hard not to beam from ear to ear like a proud mom watching her offspring get ready for their first day at school.

Sam is four years younger than Dean, but he's already looking set to outgrow his brother and the jacket fits his lean frame like a well-worn glove. Dean whistles and Sam jerks away from the mirror to glare at his older brother. "You'll tell Dad that I'm studying late at Joe McCormick's house, right, Dean?"

Joe is one of the few school kids Sam had been able to latch himself onto since the Winchester family settled in Bartonville, Texas, just two short months ago. Whilst Joe is easily the lamest of the lame kids—from what Dean has seen of the curly blonde haired bespectacled youth so far—he can tell Joe is nice enough. And seeing as Joe hasn't tried to kill, maim or eat Sam in the last few months, he's pretty much passable in Dean's book. "It's Friday night—he wouldn't expect anything less from you, Sammy."

Sam turns and peers at himself again in the full-length mirror. Wearing Dean's jacket and his matching Dean shirt, in his eyes, he actually doesn't look half-bad for a change. His new school hasn't been a picnic, not at all. Being the new kid, academically gifted and fully clad in thrift store bargains, he may as well have walked into the intimidating red brick high school building with a giant 'L' tattooed on his forehead. Dean knows it too and it wouldn't be so crappy if it was actually true, but the fact of the matter is that Sam is as far removed from a loser as you can get.

It's always troubled Dean to know that none of Sam's classmates will ever get the chance to know the real Sam. The kid who works so hard to research for hunts that some days he has to be reminded to eat. The kid who continually puts his life on the line to backup his dad and brother on hunts. The kid who has rescued more people than the local county fire department. It sucks, beyond words, but it's called being a Winchester and it's the price they pay for the life they lead.

XXX

Carl Booker is the son of the Chief of Police at the Twin Oaks Police Department. He's six feet tall, handsome in a chiselled-chin, 90210 kind of way, hugely popular and the best track runner in the school. Or at least he had been until Sam tried out for the track team, and Carl was given first hand experience of what someone else's dust tastes like.

Carl had looked seriously pissed and Sam braced himself for something bad to happen. For his locker to get trashed, perhaps, or for one of Carl's numerous Incredible Hulk-sized friends to give him a broken nose, but later that same day Carl sought him out during lunch and invited him to a party.

Not just any party, either, but the end-of-term blowout Carl had been planning to hold in his parents' sprawling seven-bedroom house—the kind of house that comes complete with a home gym, swimming pool and tennis courts. Sam had been so stunned at the invite that he might have nodded or he might have just stood there with his mouth hanging wide open in an impersonation of a goldfish – Sam couldn't remember which.

But the knowledge that Katie Garland was going to be there had almost been incentive enough. Sam had noticed Katie on his very first day at Red Lodge High School. Katie is undeniably beautiful, intelligent, witty in a way that would even make Dean blush and simply the most lusted-after girl in Sam's year. Subsequently Sam rated his chances of scoring a date with a girl like Katie at somewhere a few million miles below zero, but what Sam didn't realize was that Katie already had her sights set on him.

Before the end of Sam's third week at Red Lodge High. Katie had found herself waiting patiently for Sam outside of his English Lit class. She'd trailed him right to the school entrance as he made his way out of the stuffy crowded building into the fresh blue skies of a sizzling hot June day. She'd followed him as he walked the long mile to a side of town her parents would have grounded her for stepping foot in.

Furtively, she watched Sam's almost graceful movements as he hurried up his apartment steps, and smiled as Sam startled when an older boy shouted out a boisterous greeting whilst stepping from the driver's side of a classic black car. The two boys bumped shoulders, the older boy swiftly feigning a sharp right hook that Sam dodged skillfully, only to be grabbed in a playful headlock, his chestnut hair mussed by a ferocious noogie as the older boy proceeded to haul him bodily— still trapped in a headlock—into the apartment building.

As she walked home alone, her thoughts were filled with Sam Winchester. She couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was about him that had struck her so hard. Perhaps it was that he was attractive but clearly didn't know it. He was also clever but didn't boast about it. It might have been that he was a fine athlete but not bloodthirstily competitive like most of the airhead school jocks. If anything, Sam was obviously different from the other boys at school, a complete breath of fresh air in a town so stale that Katie found herself struggling to breathe most days. Whatever it was about him, she was well and truly captivated.

XXX

Feeling like he's wearing a costume to a fancy dress ball, Sam rides the bus to Carl Booker's house on the respectable side of town. Dean had offered Sam a lift in the Impala, but Sam had refused on the basis that there was no way he would trust Dean not to do something embarrassing, like pretend to kiss his cheek or pat his backside as he got out the car. _("Sammy, okay__,__ so I did do that once__,__ but I can totally promise that it won't happen again."_)

Sam hears the party even before he sees it, deafening beats shaking the ground beneath his feet. Probably some popular dance track, but Sam's unsure, seeing as his only real knowledge of music revolves around Dean's classic rock collection and his Dad's treasured 'Live at Folsom Prison' Johnny Cash LP.

The house is certainly impressive; easily a dozen or so fast cars are parked carelessly on the driveway and along the length of the tree-lined street. Sam makes his way across the manicured lawn towards the house. The windows are brightly lit and he can see the place is jam-packed with kids from school. A couple of them he recognizes, like Steve Hutchinson and Chad Bryson, jocks from the football team enthusiastically attempting to dance whilst chugging cans of beer. Sam vaguely wonders if either of them has any clue who he is. _Hey, there's that kid who barely speaks more than two words unless he's talking to a teacher! Isn't that the kid who can run faster than Carl Booker, is his name Stuart something?_

Sam is suddenly hit by an overwhelming urge to turn round and go home. But he knows Dean would be angry. Well, no, not angry, just disappointed. And Joe McCormick is inside there somewhere waiting for him, and however badly Sam wants to leave, he was the one who asked Joe to come and he couldn't, _wouldn't_, abandon his friend to the lion's den.

Sam stands for a moment, shifting his weight from one foot to the other when the door opens to reveal Carl standing on the threshold, with a beer in one hand and a huge smile on his lips. "Winchester. I knew you wouldn't wuss out, though you looked a little tempted there for a minute."

Sam shrugs noncommittally and Carl pushes the door wide, motioning for Sam to come inside. "I think your buddy is in there." Carl points in the direction of the lounge and with that he disappears into the heaving throng with a promise that he'll be back with beer.

Sam trundles into the well**-**furnished lounge. His eyes scan the crowded room and quickly find Joe standing alone by a huge ornate fireplace. Joe's facial expression seems to be pre-programmed to anxiety, like he thinks he's a slab of meat which has just been thrown into a piranha tank.

Joe spots Sam and instantly scurries over, relief plastered all over his face now. "Sam. Thank God, I was beginning to think you'd ditched me."

Sam smiles, genuinely pleased to see Joe. "So, good party?"

"Well, I've had a very interesting conversation with a corn chip so far but that's about it." Joe scratches at his nose. "But—it's not like I go to many parties, Sam."

"Me either."

Carl's head appears, bobbing towards them amongst the mass of grinding teenagers and he shoves his way through. He has a large cup of beer in each hand and passes them over. "Enjoy, fellas. If you stick around long enough the head cheerleader usually gets pretty wasted, and if you're really lucky she might do her infamous Madonna routine."

"Sounds fun. Hope it's early Madonna though, I'm not really into her new stuff," Joe pipes up**.** Carl crinkles his nose, giving him a look as though Joe were something he'd just found stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

"Glad to hear it." Carl leans over, putting his head close to Sam's ear. "The beer is _really_ good." Carl winks and wanders away.

"Weird. Hey, Sam? I thought Carl Booker wanted to pummel your face?"

"Yeah, so did I, but maybe he's not such a bad guy." Sam takes a sip of the beer, which slides down his parched throat with ease. He empties the cup in a few huge mouthfuls.

"Thirsty much?" Joe asks, giving him an odd look.

"Yeah, but it's so hot and Carl's right, the beer is really good." Sam smiles widely. He can feel himself beginning to relax. All the tension slowly seeps away from his limps and any thoughts of the piles of research and homework sitting at home waiting for him starts to melt away. "Let's have another drink."

XXX

"Dean?" John Winchester kicks out a foot and pushes the apartment door open with difficultly. His arms are crammed with books and a couple hit the floor with a dull thud as he struggles his way inside.

Dean gets up from the couch and quickly retrieves the fallen books from the floor.

"Get Sam to skim through these. I need a banishing ritual. Looks like we're dealing with a malicious spirit in Coopers Wood and my money is on a teenaged girl who hung herself from one of the trees there in the 70s."

_I'm fine, thanks for asking__,__ Dad. _But Dean already knows his dad has little tolerance for chitchat, not when a new hunt is at the forefront of his mind. Dean's fingers leaf through one of the books. "I've got some spare time, I'll take a look."

"Where's your brother?"

"At Joe's."

"What, studying again? He knows research comes before school work."

"Yeah, well, can we cut the kid some slack? Please, Dad? He's been working really hard on this case as it is." _Or maybe you just haven't noticed your own son walking around looking like a zombie._

John eyes Dean steadily, conflicting emotions flashing across his face. "Fine, but I want him home before midnight; we need to be all over this hunt and fast—before anyone else gets hurt."

Dean smiles. A small victory, but still a victory—his Dad isn't an easy guy to get to back down by any means. "Thanks, Dad." Dean sits himself back on the couch with the disconcertingly large pile of books. _You owe me big time__,__ Sammy_.

XXX

Sam's eyes are on the kids dancing in the centre of the room. Their bodies have merged together to form one great mass of vibrant color, which floats and swirls in clouds of wispy rainbow smoke. Something isn't right but he feels so good, too good to be concerned about it. For the first time in a long time, his head doesn't ache. Studying doesn't matter, research doesn't matter—he just wants to lie down and watch the colors meld together.

He holds his hand out and his fingertips sink into the shimmering thick fog of colors, until it envelops his hand, then his arm right up to his elbow. It feels like the limb is moving through molasses.

"Sam?"

Sam can hear someone whispering his name. The voice is too soft to be Dean. It sounds like Joe, but he doesn't sound happy. He sounds scared shitless and something about that tugs at Sam's insides, but the colors are just so damn intoxicating that he can't snap out of it.

Joe glances worriedly down at Sam, who is sitting on the floor—his back lent heavily against the wall and his long legs sticking out flat in front of him—staring at his hand held up in front of his face. Joe feels sick to the stomach. Sam's normally so guarded that it's unsettling to see him looking spaced out and vulnerable. "Sam, can you even hear me in there?" Joe shakes Sam's shoulder gently but Sam's head just bobs and Sam laughs, loud and uncontrolled.

"What's wrong with Sam? Is he drunk?"

Joe jumps and looks up to see Katie Garland staring at Sam, her green eyes wide with concern. "I don't get it. He's only drank like two beers, but he's out of it. Something's wrong."

"Is Winchester having fun yet?" Carl asks, moving away from a group of his friends.

"What's going on?" Katie turns on Carl, her pretty face brimming with barely concealed anger.

"The new kid needed to blow off a little steam, is all."

"Holy shit. Did you put something in his fucking drink?" Joe hisses as he stands up to glare at Carl.

Quick as a flash, Carl grabs Joe, one hand squeezing at the back of Joe's thin neck. "You say anything to anyone and I'll make your life even more of a freakin' misery than it already is. You'll wish you'd never been born. Do you understand me?" Carl growls and stalks away.

The bright colors are changing, starting to dim, and Sam watches, fixated, as faces begin to emerge from the mist. Strange ghostlike faces with sad shrunken eyes and horrible wide gaping mouths. Sam's breathing quickens and he presses himself into the wall, pushing himself away from the faces. _Dean? Where is Dean? _"Deus, in nómine tuo salvum me fac..." He starts mumbling Latin but the faces continue closing in on him.

"Shit. Shit. He's freaking out." Joe crouches down next to Sam and grabs him by the shoulders, shaking him again, but roughly this time, as Sam's face begins to twist in fear. "Sam! Listen to me, it's not real. Whatever you're seeing, it's not real."

"What's Sam saying? I don't understand what he's saying." Joe glances up and realizes that Katie is crying.

Some of the kids have stopped dancing and are starting to stare and point, reminiscent of rubberneckers gawping at a car crash. Soon all the eyes in the room seem to be focused on them and nobody is moving a damn muscle to help. Whispers hang in the air, reaching Joe's ears despite the loud music.

"Help me get him outside," Joe says sharply to Katie, giving the dumbfounded spectators the best glowering look he can manage with his eyes watering. Joe and Katie lift Sam up between them and half-drag, half-carry him out of the room and outside, where they lower him carefully down onto the grass.

"Dean? DEAN!" Sam shouts, his breathing growing more erratic. Joe puts his arm around Sam's shoulder, rubbing his back. "Get away from me. Dean! What have you done with Dean?"

"Dean's not here right now, Sam, just take it easy."

But nothing seems to be getting through and Sam is growing increasingly anxious—by now his face is glistening with sweat. His eyes dart wildly, tracking something Joe and Katie can't see. Sam fumbles in his pockets, unsteady fingers searching for a weapon, salt, anything, but he only uncovers lint and a few crumpled dollar bills. Katie's hand cups his cheek, trying to hold his gaze. "Sam?"

Sam looks directly at her and for a split second he stills, his breathing starting to grow shallow, but then his eyes roll back in his head and he slumps onto the ground, his body starting to convulse.

-0-

_More soon._


	2. As long as I'm around

_A/N - I just couldn't leave you guys waiting any longer. Part Two is as ready as it's ever going to be. I'm going to drag this out into a three part fic now because there is just too much to cram into two chapters. Thank you for your support and patience. You've been fab!_

_A massive 'thank you' once again to my beta Kender Rock My World…"No, it's totally YOU" lol! I'm seriously building the altar dude, but I drawn the line at sacrificing virgins. I fiddled when I got the chapter back (couldn't resist, Kender) and so any and all remaining mistakes are my own. _

_Story disclaimer and all warnings as Part One so still too much swearing. My bad!_

**Altered State – Part Two. "As long as I'm around, nothing bad is gonna happen to you."**

Carl has gone AWOL from the party. After a few drawn-out minutes of fruitless searching, Steve Hutchinson eventually tracks Carl down away from the hordes of adolescents, upstairs in his bedroom. There's an inebriated girl laid face down on his bed, out cold, her slender arms hanging over the edge of the bedspread. "Winchester's sick." Steve slams the door closed behind him with a bang.

"So what? Put him in a cab," Carl grumbles, disinterested, his full attention lingering on the girl whose short black skirt is riding dangerously high on her soft pink thighs.

"No, I mean _sick_, like having a friggin' seizure. That science class geek—Joe something— and Katie Garland have taken him outside. Man, you said this was gonna be funny, that he'd flip out and we'd all get a good laugh out of it." Steve's visibly on edge; this whole thing stopped being a kick a long time ago. If his parents find out he's been drinking and getting involved with drugs he's going to be spend the remainder of his teens incarcerated in his bedroom or worse, have his allowance cut off. "Your neighbors are gonna start calling the cops, man."

Carl groans, already picturing Mrs. Peterson's wrinkly face peeking from behind her flowery curtains, a fat Pekingese squashed underneath her armpit like a furry bug-eyed handbag.

"Carl?" Steve pushes. "What if he dies right on your front lawn? Should I call for an ambulance?"

"Are you fucking kidding me? Have you forgotten who my father is? I would be in so much shit. I'll deal with it," Carl snaps, grabbing his coat and heading for the door. Steve follows, his lips pressed together in a tight line.

XXX

"Oh, my God. I don't know what to do." Katie is wide-eyed and panic-stricken, a hand pressed against her mouth as though trying to prevent her trembling sobs from escaping.

"Katie, his head! Make sure he doesn't hit his head." Joe watches as Sam's limbs continue to flail, his back arching off the ground as his muscles strain, cords standing out clearly on his neck. At last the jerky movements begin to die down and Sam's head slumps lifelessly to one side. Foamy pink-tinged blood is dribbling from the corner of Sam's mouth, dripping down his pallid cheek. Joe can't see but he's almost positive Sam has bitten the hell out of his tongue.

Joe hovers a hand over Sam's lips, beyond relieved when a faint wispy breath tickles lightly ­against his palm. As he pulls out his cell phone his hands are shaking. His fingers feel huge and awkward as he stabs clumsily at the buttons.

"Hang up the phone." Carl is sprinting quickly towards them. Steve Hutchinson, Carl's number one fuckwit goon of choice, keeps pace at his side.

"Sam needs to go to the hospital." Joe stands up, forcing himself to sound firm although he feels ready to piss himself and while Joe's never really given a crap if people think he's a loser, he kind of hopes that he doesn't. "Well done with that, by the way," he adds bitterly under his breath.

"What did you just say to me, dickweed?" Carl grabs hold of Joe's jacket collar, shaking him roughly so that Joe's head wobbles back and forth like some freaky marionette puppet and Carl's the one operating the strings. Carl wrenches the cell phone from Joe's fingers, promptly putting an end to the unconnected call.

"What the hell is wrong with you? Sam needs help, now!" Katie screams, fingernails clawing at Carl's outstretched arm, trying frantically to reach for Joe's phone. Carl releases his grip of Joe's jacket and pulls back his hand, smacking her viciously across the face. Katie stumbles, landing heavily on her knees.

"No. Stop it!" Joe barks and Carl spins back round to snatch himself another handful of Joe's jacket. Steve takes a huge step backward and scrubs at his mouth, feeling all the more uneasy now.

Katie crawls away from the quarrelling boys, her tears cold on her burning cheek. She kneels beside Sam and puts her fingers to the pulse point in his neck. Katie doesn't know anything about first aid. She can tell you the best place in town to get a first-class manicure but doesn't have a clue how to stitch a stab wound or how to pop a dislocated shoulder back into its socket**.** But she does know—_is fucking convinced_—that Sam's pulse shouldn't be hammering away like a runaway locomotive. "It'll be okay, Sam. You'll be okay," she whispers as she buries her face into the folds of his brown leather jacket, and prays to God she's not lying.

Carl's breath is hot and sticky on Joe's face, stinking heavily of alcohol and stale cigarette smoke. "You call for an ambulance and the cops will bust my ass. I'm not going to let that happen."

"Sam needs help," Joe whimpers, his eyes pleading because Carl's a douche bag but he's not about to let Sam die so he can avoid getting into his dad's bad books, is he?

"Do you want me to tell everyone the real reason why you live with your grandparents? I haven't forgotten what my dad told me about your mom. By the way, how is she enjoying prison? She's, what, four years into her sentence now?" Carl stares at Joe, challenging the considerably smaller boy to cross him.

Joe freezes, rooted to the spot, eyes bulging behind his thick-framed glasses.

"You'll keep your mouth shut or I'll make sure every single kid in school knows that your mom is a junkie who steals to feed her sick habit. Now quit snivelling. I'll take care of Winchester."

Katie watches helplessly as Carl leans over and slaps Sam's face. Sam doesn't open his eyes or react at all. "Shit." Carl rubs his hand down his pant leg, wiping away the traces of blood which have come from Sam's cheek. "I'm not getting in trouble for this." He reaches out and takes hold of Sam's arms, hauling the unconscious teenager upwards. Steve crouches down to lift Sam's legs and between them they struggle with Sam's dead weight in the direction of Carl's car.

"Aren't you going to do something? Sam's your friend**,**" Katie begs, but Joe's face is red and blotchy, stained with tears.

He bites down hard on his bottom lip, leaving it bloody. "I'm s—sorry." He stumbles and almost falls as he runs full pelt across the lawn, disappearing into the darkened streets of the surrounding neighborhood.

Katie puts her head into her hands and cries.

XXX

Dean yawns and turns the last page in a book which is thicker than a phone directory—and for Dean, probably as interesting. A small mushroom cloud of dust erupts from the pages as the book is slammed shut and Dean rubs at his practically glazed-over eyes to glance down at his watch. _Eleven thirty-five PM_. Sam should be phoning for Dean to come and pick him up soon. At least, he should if he wants to avoid facing the wrath of a certain John Winchester.

Dean stares at the phone longingly, willing it to ring—anything to escape the confines of the cramped, airless apartment. Maybe insisting Sam went out for the night hadn't been such a good idea after all. They've been living in each-other's pockets for so long now and Dean is growing more and more uncomfortably aware that he's actually a little lonely, not that he'd say it out loud. It's almost enough to make him miss listening to Sam's incessant teenaged grousing. Even though his dad has been in the apartment all night, John has barely spoken two words. Or at least, two words which haven't been connected to their current hunt.

The man himself is sitting at the kitchen table, meticulously studying the map he has spread out in front of him. There's a rapidly growing fusty baloney sandwich by his elbow. It's the same sandwich that has been sitting there for the past three hours. Just like his youngest son, John's need to eat is pretty much last on his agenda of important things to do in a day. It's a constant mystery to Dean how Sam and his dad can be so glaringly similar and yet always at loggerheads.

Dean leans back in his chair, a ligament in his back popping as he stretches his arms up high above his head. His eyes are stinging from the hours spent reading impossibly tiny print. Not for the first time he wonders how Sam does it, how his little brother can hit the books from early morning right through till late at night without going cuckoo for Coco Puffs. In fact, Dean knows that it's not unusual for Sam to research all day and then read in bed..._for pleasure_. A concept Dean has never quite fully understood, unless of course the book in question happens to be a glossy magazine which contains 'arty' shots of well stacked beauties and a hot to trot centrefold – that, he can understand.

There's the enticing promise of cold beer in the fridge and Dean tries to decide if he's got enough time to fix himself something to eat to go with his bottle of brewski. A cheese melt would go down nicely right about now; his stomach rumbles, growling its agreement with the suggestion.

Dean is pushing himself out of the chair to head into the kitchen when a heavy pounding at the front door sends both Winchesters reaching for a weapon. They exchange a look, communicating without the need for words. They instantly know it isn't Sam. On the off chance one of them forgets or loses their key, there's a set series of knocks for such an eventuality—one of the many codes which they live by—and the persistent banging going on right now certainly isn't it. Dean checks the chamber of his Glock as he opens the door, being sure not to remove the chain first.

A teenaged girl is standing on their doorstep. She's crying and has been for quite awhile if her badly smeared mascara is anything to go by. Dean shoves his gun into the waistband of his jeans and unlocks the chain to open the door fully.

He feels his chest tighten; it's the same girl—Katie?— who he saw asking Sam about the party. "What?" His tone is gruff but he already knows it's something bad and more specifically, that the something bad must involve Sam.

"It's Sam, he's hurt..."

She doesn't get any further; Dean shoots out a hand and grabs hold of her wrist. She shrieks and tries to twist her arm free, trying to pull herself away from him and his expression, which—in a mere heartbeat, a blink of an eye—has switched from mild interest to downright fury.

As she turns her head, Dean notices the painful-looking welt high on her cheekbone. He lets go of the frightened girl and holds up his hands palm-outwards, attempting to placate her. "Shit. Listen, I'm sorry...I'm sorry, just tell me what's happened? Please."

"Carl Booker." Her voice sounds raw.

"Did Carl hurt my brother?" Dean's anger is intensifying by the second, but he keeps his game face fixed in place. His hunter's brain is quick to focus on thoughts of violence and a need to spill blood. He's practically twitching to pound Carl's face into pulp. He battles to keep the emotions buried but it's a battle he's losing and always will lose, when it comes down to Sam.

Katie nods, unable to answer as she starts to cry again; she's still trembling with hiccuping sobs as Dean guides her inside the apartment.

XXX

Carl drives away from Bartonville like he's got the Devil on his tail. Steve is sitting in the passenger seat, occasionally turning to worriedly study Sam, who is laid out flat on the backseat of Carl's green Ford Mustang. Sam is ghostly pale and still insentient. His slack body rolls slightly with the momentum of the car as it speeds along, taking every sharp bend in the road with an accompanying squeal of burning tire rubber.

Carl is being obstinately tight-lipped and Steve has given up trying to wheedle out any information on where they are headed. Carl has his eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead and the burning desire to get himself out of the mess he's created.

With the speed they are travelling at they reach Denton in no time at all and, amazingly, without attracting the unwanted attention of a cop car. Carl pulls up in the parking lot of the Denton ­Presbyterian Hospital and kills the engine with a swift turn of the ignition key. "Get him out of the car."

"And do what? They're going to ask questions, they'll want to know what's wrong with him," Steve asks, somewhat panicky.

"Just get him out of the car and then we'll go."

"We're going to leave him in the parking lot?"

"I'm not getting in trouble," Carl mutters aloud, that being the only mantra running through his head right now.

"Jesus, Carl, he could be dying."

Carl gives Steve a look, which could burn through Steve like Superman's heat ray and climbs from the driver's seat. He opens the passenger door and drags Sam out of the car, laying his body down on the cool asphalt. Without ceremony, he walks back around the car and gets in, stepping on the gas and tearing out of the hospital parking lot without so much as a backward glance.

XXX

Shelly takes out a cigarette and lights it, sucking in a deep breath of the soothing smoke. She takes her time to savor the cigarette, valuing every single minute of her break. It's barely turned midnight and the ER waiting room is already crammed to capacity. Friday nights are undoubtedly the shittiest shift—crazily busy hours of dealing with leering drunks trying to cop an eyeful down her scrub top, as well as the usual idiots from bar-room brawls who've taken a beating so many times that there isn't a whole heap of brain cells left to rattle around inside their thick skulls.

As she crushes the cigarette butt underneath her heel, her attention is caught by a lump on the ground over by the edge of the parking lot boundary wall. The realization of what she is looking at is slow to sink in, but when it does, it hits her like a ton of bricks. "Holy crap." She runs towards the figure and reaches down, skilled hands turning the boy's motionless body—_because Christ, he's just a kid_— gently onto his back and placing a hand to his neck. There's a thready pulse and she screams for help.

XXX

Sam is dimly aware of a sharp pain burning across his sternum. His eyes flick open and he gasps in a breath as he sees faces leaning over him. They are the same ghostlike faces as before, only this time their eyes are dancing red flames and there are rows of wickedly pointed teeth protruding from their wide, grinning mouths.

He tries to get away, but he can't move—claws as sharp as a knife-edge hold him down, needling at his skin. One of them has taken hold of his face, painfully wrenching his eyelids apart, and he moans.

A cacophony of voices echo around him, but he can't understand the distant words. There's no Dean, no dad. Just Sam, trapped, alone and afraid. He tries to lash out at his captors— the instinct to fight or flight still strong despite his weakened condition—but Sam can't do either. "No!" he moans again fearfully.

"Calm down, kid, we're not going to hurt you."

"His pupils are pinpoints; he's definitely high on something. I'm not risking compromising his airway with activated charcoal. Set up an IV with 2mg of Naloxone. I don't think he's fully aware. Can you hear me, son? "

"Dad?" Sam pants, his eyes searching wildly. "Dean?"

"Hold him still, damn it, I can't get a vein. Get some restraints in here."

"Is that your name, kid? Dean? Shit, his stats are dropping..."

-0-

_Another cliffy…I know, **evil**! _

_There'll be a slightly longer wait for Part Three, which will be the last part of this story, as I'm still frantically typing it out now but it should be posted next week and there's a heck of a lot of loose ends to tie up._


	3. Our dark spots are pretty dark

_A/N – Here's the final chapter of the story. Thank you to everyone who's been reading and especially to those who left me a review – however long or short – it's always appreciated!_

_Huge thanks to my beta Adara-chan67 (TAFKA Kender Rock My World) for doing such a fab super-speedy job and for not stabbing me in the eye with a pencil for the amount of times I said things to her like, "Don't you think this bit sucks? I don't like this line, it's crap isn't it? Is the ending rubbish? Do you think I need to rewrite this bit?" Ooooh and for leaving me with two eyes – I stuck in a little scene you requested._

_Warnings & Disclaimer as Part One._

**Altered State – Part Three. "Our dark spots are pretty dark."**

John frowns when Dean brings Katie into their apartment, his frown increases marginally as he watches his son guide the young girl towards the couch. John appears uneasy and Dean glances over at his dad, noticing the obvious outline of a shotgun hastily hidden under the creased folds of the map resting on the kitchen table.

The room is a mess. Research papers are spread out over most of the available surfaces and even pinned to the walls. _Awesome_. Katie's going to get a very fine impression of the Winchester family—if fine could be translated into meaning that they're a bunch of weirdoes who scrawl Sumerian protection symbols above all the doors with a black Sharpie and have a macabre interest in collecting newspaper clippings about missing persons and confidential crime scene reports.

Dean holds Katie's arm, offering support, and he steps away as she takes a seat on the sagging cushions of their tattered second-hand couch. She doesn't seem to have noticed the state of the room. She doesn't seem to be noticing much in general and Dean figures maybe she's in shock or something.

"Where's Sam?" Dean's voice is cool and calm now, the same tone he uses to talk to witnesses or grieving family members when he's working a case and wants them to believe he's a Fed or a Cop. And they do believe him, every time, despite the fact he's clearly too young or dressed wrong or his ID doesn't look quite right. That cool, calm, confident tone pulls the wool over their eyes and all they see is what they want and need to see. Someone they can put their trust in to help them, to save them. Dean's had that same tone down to a fine art even before he hit his late teens.

"Dean?" John has moved to stand by the side of the couch, narrowing his eyes as he glares at his son. "What's going on? Tell me who this is."

And for the first time in forever, Dean disobeys. He blatantly disregards an order, which came straight from John Winchester's lips. Sam needs Dean right now and Dad…Dad will have to get in the queue. If he wants to bawl him out, he'll have to do it later. Dean doesn't look at John; instead he walks straight past his dad, going into the kitchen. He fills a glass with water from the faucet and brings it back. Katie reaches up a shaking hand and takes the offered drink, her eyes staring intently at a bead of liquid as it snakes its way down the side of the glass. "Katie, what's happened to my brother?"

"Carl Booker slipped something in his drink…"

By the time she's finished talking both men are deadly silent. Katie finds their silence strange and unnerving. Imagines how her own parents would react to such news, how they would scream and shout until they were blue in the face. If Katie knew the Winchesters well, she would know there was much more going on underneath their quiet exteriors.

XXX

Shelley is busily working back at her post behind the nurse's station desk, but her mind is elsewhere, stuck like glue on the teenaged boy who's just been brought in. She's good at her job, has had more than a few years to work on thickening her skin. It's not like she hasn't seen young lives wasted before, lives which had barely even begun, and she knows she can't let this sort of thing affect her. Not if she wants to stay sane or keep putting food on the table. She can't let these things affect her, but they always do.

Doctor Baker walks over to the desk, looking worn out,but he is in the middle of a grueling twenty hour shift. He's carrying a bulging folder of paperwork in his hands and Shelley glances up at him as he passes the folder over. "How's the kid doing?"

Doctor Baker grimaces. "Whatever he's taken has messed him up pretty darn good. His vitals were going haywire, but I think he's stabilized now."

"How could anyone just dump him outside like that — when he's obviously in a bad way? I mean, where are his friends? _Where's his family?_"

Doctor Barker grunts and readjusts the ID badge hanging from his pocket. "He looks like a clean-cut kid. There are no track marks on his arms. He became unresponsive during checks, slipping unconscious again, but we're keeping him restrained and monitoring his heart rhythm. Can you have a look and see if you can't get some family down here?" Doctor Barker holds out a clear plastic bag, which contains Sam's clothes and a few personal belongings.

Shelly nods and accepts the bag. As Doctor Barker disappears in search of coffee which doesn't taste of dirt, she sits down and rummages though the contents, pushing aside a torn bus ticket and a handful of loose change to wrap her fingers around the silvery glint of a cell phone. As she starts to trawl through the contacts the phone comes to life, vibrating in her hand and ringing shrilly. "Hello?"

"Who is this?" a young male voice demands brusquely.

"I should be asking you the same thing."

"What are you doing with my brother's phone? Where's Sam?"

_Sam_. Shelley sucks in a breath and slips back into professional mode. "We've found this phone on a teenaged boy who's been admitted tonight."

The voice on the line falters, curses fiercely and then goes silent. Shelley glances at the phone's display screen wondering if the caller has hung up. After a pause, the voice speaks again. "Is he okay?"

"He's alive, but it would aid his treatment if you can confirm what he's been taking."

"_He_ hasn't been taking anything. Some son-of-a-bitch moron drugged his drink. We think it was PCP."

Shelley flinches—PCP is serious stuff—but something doesn't ring true. "PCP? He's had a pretty severe reaction.Are you sure that's what your brother's been given?"

"That's all the information we have to go on." The man is growing increasingly frustrated; Shelley can sense the pent up anger even through the static-filled phone reception. "Look, you said admitted, admitted where?"

"Denton Presbyterian."

"Denton?! I'm going to kill that fuc_..._" His voice becomes muffled, there's strong cursing again and if Shelley wasn't such a good Catholic girl, she might have understood what half the cuss words meant. She can hear someone else in the background, an older man demanding he be given control of the phone conversation but the younger guy's voice argues back none-too-gently that he can handle it.

After another pause, the young man's voice returns to the phone. "I—We'll be there in less than an hour. Just…just please take care of him and call me, straight away, if his condition changes."

"Wait, are you…are you Dean?"

"Yeah. How'd you…"

"Sam was asking for a Dean."

Shelley listens as his steady breathing hitches. "We'll get there as fast as we can."

XXX

As Dean hangs up the phone, John is already hovering over him. "I can't believe this Dean; I just can't believe you would let this happen to your brother."

Dean shoots out of his chair as though someone had wired it up to an electrical current and pressed the 'shock' button. He positions himself nose to nose with John, not backing down despite John's fierce look, _not this time, D__ad_. "I didn't _let_ this happen. I wanted him to unwind, take a break. Haven't you noticed how hard he's been working lately?Non-stop, Dad, flat out. Trying to keep you freakin' happy."

Wretchedness isn't an easy emotion to identify but Dean watches it flit across his father's face. John looks away first. "You should be getting home. Do you want to call your parents?" John asks, diverting his attention to address Katie directly for the first time since she arrived.

Katie is still sitting stationary on the couch, one inch away from becoming completely freaked out by what has been the worst night of her entire life, ever. "Can't I come with you? I want to see Sam," Katie asks quietly and John doesn't respond straight away. Sam is their family, their business; it's not a simple act for John to just let someone else in. Especially someone he's only known for less than half an hour.

"It'd be better if you went home—we'll get you a cab, "John says before turning back to his son, his eyes avoiding Dean's. "We need to go, now."

"Wait." Dean pauses halfway towards the door, lost in thought and ignoring the way John is tugging at his elbow.

"Dean, we need to go. Dean?" John repeats, raising his voice because Dean's still standing there, frozen,and the look on his eldest son's face is starting to make John nervous. "What is it?"

"Something that lady said...No! No, Sam wouldn't."

"Wouldn't what, Dean?"

But Dean is already gone, hurtling out of the room and into the bedroom he shares with Sam, instantly starting to tear it apart. Clothes are flung out of drawers, Sam's schoolbooks are tossed onto the floor and Dean finally overturns Sam's bed in a whirlwind of unrestrained chaos.

The bottle is small, brown colored plastic with one of those childproof lids that Dean always pretends he can't open just to make Sam smile. It looks harmless enough, filled with pretty yellow pills which could pass for candy. It looks harmless, but it isn't. Dean pulls the bottle out from under Sam's bed and sinks onto the floor, still clutching it in his hands. John and Katie are standing framed in the doorway, side by side, both looking equally taken aback as they survey the ransacked room.

"Dean, what is it?" John's voice has softened to a low murmur.

Dean lifts the bottle and reads the label for a second time. He's not a pharmacist but he knows this is something you can't just pick up over the counter. "Oh, Sammy," he whispers.

XXX

Sam looks like a corpse, his skin tinged grey. Dark shadows frame closed eyes that are normally wide and expressive, virtually overflowing with emotion—eyes which take in every fine detail. You can't slip anything past Sam; he sucks it all up like a Hoover, storing it away to muse over later, to laugh or brood on in turn.

There's no vent, thank God, just a cannula fixed under his nose. Someone—probably a well-meaning nurse—has pushed Sam's bangs to one side. Strands of brown hair are tucked curling behind his ears. It looks wrong. Sam would freakin' hate it and Dean wants to scream at the next nurse who comes in the room because Sam doesn't belong to them, they don't even know how Sam likes to wear his hair. Dean pauses, counts down backward from ten and then sticks out a hand to brush Sam's hair into place.

The restraints had been used for Sam's own good, the doctor had said, to stop Sam from hurting himself if he was still hallucinating when he came round, but Dean removed them the minute he walked into the room, because he'll not let Sam hurt himself. He'll never let his brother hurt himself ever again.

John hasn't said a whole lot since Dean found the bottle, hidden away, shoved deep beneath Sam's bed. _'Methylphenidate,'_ a drug primarily used for treating attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder but also used as a performance enhancer. Not a performance enhancer for bodybuilders but rather one used to increase cognitive function. It's not beneficial to a person's health, especially not when mixed with another toxic substance like PCP. Sam's doctor had looked stern as he had taken the bottle and disappeared with it.

It had been a whole three hours before they had been allowed to see Sam, only to be reminded that he was still deeply unconscious and it had taken the doctors quite some time to stabilize his erratic heart-rate and dangerously high blood pressure. It had been enough information to make Dean feel ready to puke.

After almost two hours of sitting by Sam's bedside, Dean gets up, stepping out of the room to fetch some coffee. The inertia physically hurts Dean; he's been coiled like a spring for hours and if he gets any tighter, he might just snap.

When Dean returns John is leaning over the bed, pressing a kiss to Sam's forehead. He looks up as Dean opens the door and scrubs a calloused hand over his bristly chin. "You boys..." He mutters, at long last making himself look Dean in the eye and hold his son's gaze. "You boys will be the death of me."

Dean is suddenly oblivious of the fact that the thin plastic cup he is holding is red hot, burning at his fingers. He's too busy being floored by how lost his father looks.

XXX

Joe arrives at the hospital around six AM and spends a good deal of time standing in the corridor directly outside of Sam's room. A couple of times he almost makes it to the door before he shuffles away again and instead ends up taking a seat opposite the door, on one of the universally uncomfortable sludge-colored hospital chairs.

It's Dean who finds Joe sitting there in the corridor. Dean, who had been heading out in search of the nearest men's room but instead finds Joe McCormick, sitting alone and staring at his feet as though someone had written the meaning of life right on the top of his brown Converse sneakers.

They've met a handful of times before—Dean might have said "hey" and Joe might have tried to engage Dean in a conversation about the latest Bill Murray movie—but really they're strangers, and Sam is their only true common ground.

"Can I see Sam?" Joe asks so quietly that it takes Dean a few seconds to realize the kid is talking to him.

"He's not awake yet, Joe." Dean replies, really wanting to go take a piss so he can get back to his brother.

"I know. I spoke to one of the nurses. I just...I just need to see him for a couple of minutes, please."

Dean sighs. Katie had explained what happened, why Joe took off, and while part of Dean wants to punch Joe in the nose, the other part feels sorry for the kid. Dean lets his fingers glide over the door handle and then, decision made, he pushes the door open, holding it like a hotel doorman as Joe slides past him and walks inside.

Joe's eyes instantly fall on the motionless figure laid out in the bed. John is asleep in the chair to Sam's left, his arms and legs bent at awkward angles and his head tipped forward, chin resting against his chest. Dean waves a hand, motioning in John's direction. "It's been a long night, he's pretty beat."

Joe walks hesitantly over to Sam's bedside, his fingers latching onto the bed rail in a fierce death grip. He leans in close to Sam's ear, not wanting to wake John and not really wanting Dean to hear him either. "I'm sorry, Sam. I should have done something to stop Carl. I shouldn't have run away and left you. You wouldn't have left me."

"You know where this Carl Booker guy lives?" Dean asks out of the blue, not because he was eavesdropping but because he's just realized that Joe might be able to help.

"Wanna take your car?" Joe replies without hesitation, and seeing Dean's surprised expression, adds quickly, "Only I hitched to get here. Caught a ride with a scary looking trucker who kept calling me Alice. I think he was a nut job." Joe twirls his index finger in a small circle next to his head.

Dean looks at his father sound asleep in the chair, knowing that he'd be leaving Sam with the only other person in the world he'd entrust with his brother's life. "Don't go anywhere kiddo." Dean mutters as he runs a hand through Sam's hair. He waits, watching the hypnotic rise and fall of Sam's chest for the briefest of moments, and then nods at Joe that they should leave.

Dean puts a cassette tape into the stereo the instant they get in the car, partly out of habit and partly because he hates awkward silences almost as much as he hates making small talk with people whose surname isn't Winchester. Joe listens to the opening Metallica track, hums a few bars and starts singing along under his breath. Dean smiles—maybe Joe doesn't like awkward silences or small talk either.

Joe waits in the car while Dean picks the lock. Carl's house is silent; it's not yet seven AM. There's meager sunlight filtering in through the windows, enough for Dean to forego risking a flashlight. Dean heads straight for the staircase. He keeps his movements swift and agile, like a predator, _like a hunter_. He climbs to the first-floor landing and tries a couple of doors before he finds Carl's bedroom. As he steps into the room he can see Carl spread out on top of his bed asleep, dressed only in a pair of boxers. Dean clears his throat, loudly and Carl jerks awake. His eyes are almost popping out of their sockets and he's unmistakably crapping himself at the sight of a stranger—a fucking furious-as-hell stranger—standing at the end of his bed. "What the hell!"

Dean leaves Carl hogtied on his bedroom floor, still clad only in his boxers but with the addition of a swollen black eye and a few loose teeth in his mouth. It hadn't taken Dean long to find Carl's stash, a mix of pills, acid tabs and a couple of white powder baggies that Dean leaves spread out on Carl's bed.

A little later, Joe and Dean sit in the car, watching Carl's house from across the street. Joe's not sure what they're waiting for until he sees a police car pull up and Carl's own dad, Chief Booker, jumps out and hurries inside. Half an hour later and the Chief emerges—his face set with anger—as he escorts his own son to the police car, in handcuffs.

Joe glances at Dean, stunned. "Wow!"

"You know them finding Carl's stash is one thing but to make certain he doesn't get away with what he did to Sam..." Dean stops and twists his head, gives Joe a hard look.

"He won't get away it," Joe says, with full confidence because he knows now that he can make things right again. "I'll make a statement. There were other kids at the party, who saw what went down. I'm sure Steve Hutchinson could be persuaded, too."

"Well, if needs must, I got more rope in the trunk," Dean replies with a grin.

Dean's cell rings, tinny synthetic notes of something Joe recognizes as a classic Deep Purple song. Dean's grin vanishes as he reads the caller ID. It's his dad and the irrational side of Dean's brain can already hear his dad saying, _'Dean, Sam's dead.'_

But when he does press the phone to his ear—his hand badly shaking—Dad just sounds exhausted and there's relief woven into his low-timbre voice. "Dean, Sam's awake. He's asking for you."

Dean drops Joe off at his home and then drives back to Denton as if speed limits were never meant to apply to Chevy Impalas.

XXX

When Sam opens his eyes, he expects to see terrible things. He's barely cracked open his lids before his body starts tensing in preparation for another onslaught of the kind of horrors Sam has grown up around and learned to accept in a way, but never had to face alone before, never had to battle without his father or brother at his side. But this time, with his groggy eyes slowly adjusting to the dazzlingly bright light, all he sees is a white expanse of bare ceiling.

His whole body feels heavy, pushed down by invisible weights, limbs aching like he's been stretched on a rack. As he lifts his head from the pillow he sees his dad, leaning over him. John smiles—but it doesn't reach his weary eyes—sticks out a hand to squeeze Sam's shoulder and for all their arguments, all their bitter disagreements and heated harsh words, he loves the man. Needs him more than he likes to admit. And seeing his dad now, knowing he isn't going to be alone anymore; Sam rolls his body into his dad's touch and takes hold of his father's outstretch arm, pulling John down towards him until John is almost bent double with his head resting against Sam's own. "Dean?" Sam croaks out, the attempt scratches at his painfully dry throat.

"He'll be back soon, Sammy."

XXX

Dean makes Denton in record breaking time. Barely lets the Impala stop moving before he's opening the driver's door and heading for the hospital entrance. Sam's room is in semi-darkness, blinds drawn against the sun. Dad is sitting back in his chair by Sam's bedside. Dean looks at Sam whose eyes are closed, breathing deep and slow. John shrugs apologetically. "He's just dozing. He wanted to wait for you but..." John pauses runs a hand over his face. "I'm going to go make some phone calls. I'll not be long." John gets up, walks in the direction of the door but stops and looks at Dean. "You dealt with it?"

John knows he doesn't really need to ask. Dean doesn't disappoint. His son smiles a little and John recognizes the smile for what it means. He sees the way the raging fire which had been burning in Dean's eyes has withdrawn leaving only smouldering cinders. John nods his head, satisfied and leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

Dean looks at Sam. His brother, his responsibility and remembers all the monsters they've fought. All the evil things they've battled and yet it was an entirely different type of danger which could have cost him his brother's life. Sam's eyes are moving underneath their lids as he starts to wake up. Dean feels abruptly overwhelmed, unsure how he can protect Sam, not from the supernatural but from real life.

Sam blinks heavily as he struggles to focus on his brother's face. He doesn't speak, waiting instead for Dean to tell him everything's okay and make things better again. _Dean always makes things better again_. But Dean just stares, his face blank, and then he marches out of the room.

Dean surprises himself. He gets a full ten yards down the corridor before he stops, swings a fist at the drywall, turns and stalks back in the direction of his brother's room.

Dean returns to find Sam sat bolt upright in bed trying to yank out his IV. Sam's head shoots up and when he spots Dean, he relaxes. Dean can visibly see the tension ebb away, a tide going out.

"You feel better?" Sam asks, eyeing the split knuckles on Dean's right hand as he lets go of his IV tube as though he had only been playing with the thing to pass time, nothing more.

"Immensely."

But Dean still doesn't get it, how anyone as incredibly smart as Sam could do something so incredibly stupid and Dean can't shake the nagging guilty feeling that maybe Sam had been trying to tell him and he'd been too preoccupied to notice. Perhaps he had even been secretly relieved that it wasn't him, lumbered with all the research and piles of school homework and that outside of hunting, he still had free-time for kicking back in a bar, or shooting pool. And if that doesn't make Dean feel all kinds of low...

"Don't do that." Sam says. His voice is still hoarse, as gravel-like as Barry White. And the kid must be psychic or something because Dean doesn't remember saying anything out loud.

"What?"

"Don't blame yourself. I did this, Dean. _I did it_."

"You didn't stick a roofie in your own drink, Sammy."

Sam sighs, shivers a little in his wafer-thin hospital gown and huddles down deeper under the blanket. "You know what I mean."

"Where'd you get the bottle of pills?" Dean hasn't quite satisfied his blood lust—he can hammer his fists into more than just Carl Booker and a defenseless plaster wall before the day is over.

"Elm Springs, back in Arkansas. He—he told me they would help me focus, stop me from feeling so tired all the time. And they did help—at least, for a little while."

Dean grimaces, knowing he should be trying to work out how long it'd take him to drive to Arkansas to beat the crap out of whoever sold this shit to his brother, but all he can think of is that they left Arkansas over six months ago, six months and Sam's been self-medicating to try and cope with everything his school life and his hunter's life have been hurling at him. _Jesus_.

"This is screwed up, Sam. Seriously screwed up. Even for our family. You're smarter than this."

"I'm sorry, okay? I'm really sorry, Dean. I won't ever do it again."

Dean's eyes grow deadly. "You're damn right you won't because I swear Sammy, if you ever do anything so stupid ever again...I—I swear to God…"

"I know."

Dean shudders and tries hard not to think of what might have been.

XXX

Their apartment is still cluttered with abandoned research papers when the three Winchester men return home. Sam takes a seat at the table, leaning forward to rest his aching head on his folded arms. He's still too pale and unsteady on his feet as though a gentle breeze could topple him like a tree caught in the eye of a hurricane.

Dean sets Sam's rucksack down and goes into the kitchen to rustle up something to eat while John seats himself opposite his youngest son. Dean busily clangs pots and pans as he works at heating up some soup and fixing some sandwiches, but he keeps sparing a glance over his shoulder, keeping an eye on his family.

"I want you to tell me why you did it, Sam? Why you felt like you couldn't come talk to me?" John asks.

"I—I wanted both worlds. We're hunters and I accept that, but my school work...it's important to me. It's not to you and I'm not mad about that, I understand, okay?"

"Your _life_ is important to me, Sammy. My job is keeping you and Dean alive and finding out what killed your mother to stop it from hurting other families like it hurt ours, and if I sometimes focus solely on that,then..." John sighs heavily, at a point beyond despair because somewhere along the line he's screwed things up, pushed too hard and finally realizing it doesn't make it any easier. "What you want out of life is important to me. But I've got to ensure that you keep your life. I know I put too much pressure on you, on Dean,too. Sometimes all I see is the hunter in you boys. Sometimes—sometimes, I forget you're my sons first and foremost."

"I'll never do it again, Dad." Sam whispers, and John reaches out across the table top to squeeze Sam's hand in a firm protective grip. They stay like that, only moving to break contact when Dean's voice hollers from the kitchen.

"Soup's up," Dean shouts as he carries two bowls over to them.

Sam takes the steaming bowl gratefully but then pauses and sniffs at it. "Tomato?" His tone verges on suspicious.

Dean smirks, quickly guessing what Sam's worried about. That little brother must be remembering a bitterly cold December seven years ago when they were short on cash and John had been unable to get back to them, snowed in a few towns over. With barely enough money to cover their rent, Dean had resorted to making tomato soup by mixing ketchup with boiling water and Sam is still clearly carrying scars from that taste experience. "Tomato soup— from a can, dude." Dean waves the empty tin at Sam's face.

"Eat up boys, we're packing up and moving on today," John states as though it was the most normal thing in the world for him to announce they're bailing on a hunt.

Sam stops eating, a full spoon halfway towards his parted lips. "We're leaving?"

"You want to stay, Sam?" John asks, sincere.

Sam pauses, thinks of all the kids who saw him freaking out at the party, about having to face Carl Booker again in the school hallways. "No...but what about the hunt?"

"Caleb's agreed to finish the hunt, simple salt and burn, seeing as a certain someone cracked the research side of things."

"Anyway, we can't stick around." Dean interjects, smiling as he slurps up a mouthful of his soup with gusto. "Because I'm just too damn pretty for jail. Speaking of which, I wonder if Carl Booker's made friends with his new roomie yet?"

Sam stares wide-eyed at his brother, guessing the answer but still asking anyway. "Dean, what did you do?"

A knock at the door interrupts Dean before he even gets to open his mouth—a gentle knock, not like the frantic pounding from the night before—and Sam gives Dean a look which says "_Tell me later because I want to hear all the details,"_ and Dean winks before going back to making short work of the rest of his soup.

Sam opens the door, peering through the narrow gap allowed by the door chain. It's Katie, dressed in torn jeans and a crumpled sweater but still beautiful. Sam unlocks the chain, drops his knife out of sight so that it falls behind the door and slips outside.

It's raining and her hair is wet. It's little more than a light shower, a gentle spray which ghosts across Sam's face so he can barely feel it. The air has grown cool, a welcome break from all the dry heat. Even the yellow parched grass which surrounds the apartment looks refreshed.

"I'm sorry I didn't come by the hospital. My parents grounded me after they found out about what happened at the party," Katie begins, pushing a few damp strands of hair out of her eyes.

"You were grounded?"

"I still am. Joe told me you were home and I guess a girl's not lived unless she's climbed out of her bedroom window at least once, right?"

"You're amazing." Sam mutters and then rapidly reddens at his words.

Katie smiles, reaches out to take his hand and Sam soon forgets to be embarrassed. "So I guess I'll be seeing you at school, when you're feeling well enough?"

Sam shakes his head. "We're leaving...my dad's job, we move around a lot."

"Jeez, Sam, you've been the best thing about living in this dead-end town." Katie looks momentarily stricken but she squeezes Sam's hand and lets a small smile tug on the corners of her mouth. "But if you move around a lot, maybe you'll be back?"

"Maybe," Sam echoes and really hopes they will be.

Katie leans forward, kisses him swiftly on the lips. Her face is flushed as she pulls away, perhaps from the cold or perhaps from something else. "Don't dare forget me, Sam Winchester."

Rain water pours like a fine curtain off the end of the porch roof. Sam watches Katie walk away down the street and knows he won't forget her. He'll store her somewhere safe. Bartonville, Texas. Another town to add to the long list of places Sam has called home over the years but now when Sam looks back and thinks of Bartonville it won't dredge up dark memories of failing his family—just soft stolen kisses and sweet summer rain.

-end-

_Thanks for joining me for the ride. Please review._


End file.
